


Rhodium

by 7PercentSolution



Series: Periodic Tales [9]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Autistic Sherlock, Case Fic, Chemistry, Gen, Kidlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-08
Updated: 2016-08-08
Packaged: 2018-08-07 13:23:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7716364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/7PercentSolution/pseuds/7PercentSolution
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rh 45 102.905</p><p>A silver-white chemically inert transition metal that is part of the platinum group. A thousand times more rare than gold, it is named after the Greek word, rhodon, meaning 'rose coloured'. With only a single isotope, it is one of the rarest and most valuable precious metals, something that Sherlock has come to understand has a number of different meanings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The rarity of Rhodium affects its price and therefore its commercial applications. Between 2004 and 2008, the price of a pound in weight of the metal rose from US$5,000 to US$110,000.

John shifted his weight a little from his left leg. It had gone numb.

"Don't fidget, John. They will show up."

The doctor sighed. They had been waiting for almost four hours in the cold. The wheelhouse of the boat protected them from the wind, but it wasn't heated. The wooden deck beneath him moved gently; the incoming tide up the Thames was beginning to reach the St Katharine's Dock marina at last.

Sherlock had taken him aboard the  _Havengore_  at 11pm. Unbeknownst to its current owners, a corporate hospitality company, the consulting detective had decided it was moored at the perfect vantage point to observe discretely the comings and goings of boats into the three separate mooring areas of the marina. He had picked the lock with consummate ease, and commandeered the bridge. "It's perfect, John. No vessel can get in or out of the marina without passing right in front of us."

All around them, the power launches and sailing yachts of the City's wealthiest seafarers bobbed in the swelling waters. The water levels in the dock were carefully regulated; when the tide retreated, lock gates kept the depth of the marina artificially high.

The case was most unusual, brought to Sherlock by a city investment analyst from the London Metal Exchange.. Aside from Michael Shaunnesey's day job regulating the sale of over 80% of the world's non-ferrous metal trading, he followed the much less transparent market of precious metals- platinum, palladium and rhodium, in particular. The last two of these were traded in such small volumes that they never made it onto any of the big market boards. But, you could get prices from suppliers. He had developed a computer price tracking programme that detected a recent price manipulation- but couldn't prove a thing. He parked his Boxster Porsche in front of 221b, climbed the stairs and recounted a dark tale of market misdeeds. He built a persuasive case, but, no one in the City Police or the market authorities understood enough about what was happening to know what to do about it.

"Trouble is, it's fiendishly difficult to figure it out." He showed Sherlock a complicated chart that tracked the price of rhodium per ounce around the world's specialist providers over the past five months. "I can see it, but I don't know what is causing it. The only thing that could be affecting it like this is the sudden appearance, like magic, of a source of rhodium that no one knows anything about. The price is being artificially boosted, and then when it reaches a real crunch point, the criminals do some profit taking by dumping a consignment of about a quarter tonne. And that's impossible. Every mine is known, every production quota is scrutinised in detail. There is just such demand for Rhodium worldwide that we'd know if the stuff was legal."

"I'm at wits end, Mr Holmes. No one seems able to do anything about it. All I am asking you to do is think about the problem. And, if you come up with some ideas, then maybe we can get the police interested. Given your track record with the police, they just might listen to you, whereas they just think I'm some computer nerd with a conspiracy theory."

The consulting detective had been listening quietly, with his eyes half closed. For a moment, John thought he was going to do his usual "boring" routine and dismiss the prospective client as being just what he described himself as - a geek with a nutty idea.

"What's the current price of Rhodium?"

"$5,321 an ounce." Shaunnesey's reply stunned John.

Sherlock's eyes opened. "That's nearly 43 million dollars' worth, if they are able to shift a quarter of a metric tonne."

"Yes- you see my point, Mr Holmes. I just can't prove it. It's pure speculation, in more ways than one."

Silence fell in the room, as Sherlock considered the problem. He brought his hands up under his chin in a prayer position and half closed his eyes again. Shaunnesey cast a puzzled glance at John, who decided that now was the time to offer the client a cup of coffee.

The City analyst followed him into the kitchen, where his expression showed his surprise at the haphazard collection of laboratory equipment strewn across the table. "Um, is he always like this? Do you think he will take the case?"

John gave him a reassuring smile. "He already has. He would have dismissed you instantly if he didn't want to get involved. He's…thinking. That's what you asked him to do, so he's doing it."

When the two went back into the living room, John just put the cup of black coffee into Sherlock's outstretched hand. A moment later his eyes opened.

"Well, Mr Shaunnesey, this is an interesting one. Initial thoughts – and probably that is as far as the authorities got, given their limited brains- were that this is a scam. But your evidence suggests repeated success, and to do that means the criminals actually have to deliver the goods. You can fool suppliers desperate for the metal into parting with cash once, but if the Rhodium doesn't turn up, they are unlikely to buy again."

He took a sip of his coffee. His interest showed in the baritone. "So, someone is sourcing, moving and delivering a cargo that weighs just over five hundred pounds- and reaping huge rewards. Yes, I will take this case. It is a challenge. That sort of volume is quite easy to move around unseen by the authorities."

Michael Shaunnesey relaxed the tension in his shoulders and took a long sip of the coffee. "I can see I've come to the right man. You  _know_  about Rhodium."

"Oh yes."

John frowned, and looked at the two men in annoyance. "Well, I don't, so just fill me in, please."

Sherlock smirked. "It's a case of business economics, John. If you are going to smuggle a metal, then make it one that is very high priced. Gold is just too  _plentiful_ , despite its reputation. And its price is volatile, reflecting the state of equity and money markets. So, it's currently selling at under $1,000 an ounce. Over the past decade, Rhodium has been worth between five to eight times  _more_  than gold, four hundred and fifty times more than silver. Rhodium is  _rare_ \- and it isn't an investment metal, its users are far more consistent in their demand. The volume of metal involved in a quarter tonne of Rhodium would fit comfortably into the back of a white van. That makes moving it …more interesting."

He now focussed his attention on Shaunnesey. "Why do you think that the smuggling is happening here in London?"

The analyst put his coffee cup down, and pulled up the print outs again. "The price data is timed- so I can track it around clock, to find the best price. The price peaks are always timed when the London markets open. That's what made me suspicious in the first place. So, well, if the statistics are accurate, then it's based here."

Sherlock considered for a moment, then nodded. "The balance of probabilities says you are correct, Mr Shaunnesey. The inexorable rise in the price over the past decade has been driven mostly by Chinese demand, but their preferred sources are in South Africa rather than Russia."

The analyst nodded. "Yes, I can see you've been watching the news, Mr Holmes, so you know about the Bushveld mines labour disputes that are stopping platinum production."

Sherlock gave a sharp nod. "Every day the strike continues, prices are rising- which creates an unprecedented opportunity for anyone sitting on a supply of Russian rhodium. But it won't last, the South African government may have botched the first round by taking too heavy a hand with the strikers, but the multinational mining companies will give in and raise wages. It's only a matter of time. It is logical to assume…."

Sherlock stopped and looked away. His eyes were unfocussed, his expression blank for a moment. John looked at him with concern. "Sherlock, are you alright?"

"OH!" The consulting detective's eyes snapped wide open. "Mr Shaunnesey, we will have to move fast. I believe a consignment may already have been sold- just not yet reported on your statistics. The criminals will not want to delay in delivering- because it's going to be a whopper- probably as much as half a tonne. The risk of moving that valuable a cargo on roads from north eastern Siberia where it's mined– challenging- and it would take  _days_  to get from there to here. And that would run too many risks that the South African labour dispute will get solved and the value of the cargo suddenly plummet in value. So, a plane would be quicker, but again, the weight would be interesting, so not a light aircraft, and customs officials at proper cargo airports are getting harder to bribe- too high risk… so I think they are moving this by sea. Not by container, no- that takes even longer than by truck. Try a superyacht- one of the big power boats that come in and out of the Docklands area on a regular basis- quite a few are owned by Russian oligarchs. John, we need to head to East London." This stream of consciousness was uttered at a speed that left both the doctor and the City analyst reeling.

So it was that they'd spent the afternoon traipsing from one marina office to another, tracking down Russian-owned motorised yachts. Any that were already in port were scrutinised in terms of their documentation to see their recent comings and goings. With six marinas downstream of Tower Bridge to investigate, they'd split up after the first one, once John knew what he was supposed to be looking for. He kept Sherlock informed by text. Through hard slog and sweat, they'd narrowed it down to two possible boats moored at St Katharine's dock. One vessel, the  _Vlad_ , was already moored, having arrived there in the afternoon. The marina CCTV showed no signs of anything other than a single man leaving with a briefcase. The other empty slip was awaiting an arrival that had been booked for the morning tide.

In the wheelhouse of the  _Havengore_ , the doctor yawned. Waiting all night to see if anyone showed up to remove a half tonne cargo from the  _Vlad_  was about as exciting as watching paint dry.

"Bored, John?"

"And you're not?"

"Of course not; I am patience personified when working on a case."

"Why's this stuff worth so much? It doesn't make sense. It's not like it's gold."

"Simple market forces combined with chemistry. Rhodium is rare and it is in demand. Only 25 tonnes a year is mined, and 80% of that goes into catalytic converters for cars, where the Rhodium is used to convert the pollutant nitrogen oxide into harmless emissions. As demand for cars goes up and China starts trying to tackle its air pollution problem, then it is inevitable that the price of Rhodium will keep going up.  _Every_  legitimate supplier wants more. So, when half of 1% of the world's annual supply is available under the radar, the private auction price will go sky-high. "

As the night sky turned into dawn's pinkish grey, the doctor shifted his weight again.

"John, if your leg is bothering you that much, sit down in the captain's chair."

He grimaced, but complied.

"It's appropriate,  _Captain_  Watson. Did you ever consider the navy instead of the army?"

"Nope- I get seasick."

Sherlock took his eyes away from the binoculars in surprise. "Really?  _Mal de mer?_  You surprise me, John; I would not have thought that of you."

The doctor shook his head. "It's an inner ear thing. Just don't like having a shifting ground under my feet."

"Hmm…well, it won't be much longer. If the owners of the  _Vlad_  had secreted a half tonne of metal on board, they certainly haven't been in a hurry to shift it tonight, and I would have thought they would try to offload such an incriminating cargo in hurry. So attention switches to the second boat which is due in soon."

The airwave radio sitting on the dashboard next to Sherlock crackled into life. "MPU control Wapping- target two has passed the Thames Barrier. ETA St Katharine's twelve minutes."

"Battlestations, John." He smirked. The Met's Marine Police Unit had been alerted by Sherlock, and were discretely monitoring the progress up the Thames of the second Russian registered yacht- a 40 metre Sunseeker, fully kitted for blue water global sailing, last recorded port of call in Russia was Murmansk. Owned by an oligarch with commercial interests in the Eastern Siberian peninsula, up at the Arctic Circle, the vessel was called The _Tsarskaya Okhota_.

"Right on time." Sherlock's grin was almost feral. Warning lights began to flash, automatic gates dropping down to stop early morning traffic on St Katharine's Way alongside which the  _Havengore_  was moored. Within moments, the marina lock gates were swinging open, and a sleek white yacht began to move slowly through the narrow opening.

"Yes, John, our ship has come in."

John looked through the binoculars, trying to see what made Sherlock so positive. "How can you be sure?"

"Weight, John. Look at how low in the water she is. Carrying more cargo than normal, a half tonne by my estimation." He switched on the airwave radio and notified the MPU. "That's your target, Wapping. Notify all units; search the cargo and crew."

Once the mooring ropes were tied off by a crewman, the rest of the scenario played out as Sherlock planned. Uniformed officers swarmed aboard and a search commenced. Out on the quayside now, Sherlock and John waited for confirmation. One officer emerged on the sunseeker's deck and raised a thumb upwards, bringing a smile to the brunet's face, before he turned and started to stride away.

"Let's stop in at the Tower Hotel, John. You deserve a hearty breakfast after a cold night."

The hotel restaurant had a stunning view of Tower Bridge to the southwest, but Sherlock chose a table that had a bird's eye view eastwards of the St Katharine's dock marina. As he tucked into his bacon and eggs, John watched Sherlock pick at a piece of toast, his eyes on the sleek boats. The doctor grinned.

"I might not like the sea much, but your brother once told me that you wanted to be a pirate when you were little."

That provoked a soft chuckle. "Smuggling has always been a feature of English history, John. But, these days, the smart money isn't on pieces of eight, there's more money to be made on ingots of Rhodium."

oOo

 **45** -1+53+6+1+18+48-6

67+3-53+109-22-53+99

53+16

18-86-7

3+18

The strange sequence of numbers was written in bold black magic marker on a flip chart sized sheet of paper. Even more bizarrely, the sheet was hanging off the antlers of the deer head mounted ten feet up on the wall of the Great Hall. Richard Holmes knew it was not there when he had passed through the room just fifteen minutes before, on his way to meet Doctor Francoise Derrand, who just happened to be from the Haute Autorité de Santé, the French National Authority for Health responsible for clinical approval of drugs to be used in the country's health services. Derrand was an important man, one whose decisions about drugs could alter the fortunes of Holmes' many pharmaceutical interests overnight, should he be favourably impressed.

Now with his guest in tow, he was presented with the unexpected vandalism. An embarrassed silence ensued.

"Is this some strange English custom to welcome your house guests,  _Monsieur_  Holmes?"

The tall man put a smile on his face as he turned to the Frenchman. "No, I can assure you it's not that. It's just my younger son's idea of a prank. I will be  _seeing_  to him about it shortly. Just ignore it- he's of that age- thirteen and all about attention-seeking. You know how it is with youngsters these days."

The Frenchman smiled. "Of course. Only my nephew of that age is more interested in his computer games, football and music than some… mysterious code. So, your son is mathematically gifted?"

Richard Holmes seethed inside as he ensured that an indulgent smile remained on his face. "No. He's just got a sense of humour that's a bit…odd- just like he is. Now my elder son, Mycroft, is completely different. He's at Oxford now and attracting all the  _right_  sort of attention. He's quite brilliant. Fluent in French, of course; as you know, my wife was half French."

As he steered Derrand through the oak door into the drawing room, Holmes pressed the button that would alert the butler to bring in tea. "I am so very pleased that your wife has been able to join us. My chauffeur is already on his way to pick her up from the airport and get her here in time for drinks before dinner. First, we will have a cup of tea, while the staff will ensure your things are taken to your room. After tea, when you've had a chance to freshen up, then we can get down to some business."

After the butler arrived with the tea and served the two men, Richard followed him to the door. Once on the other side, he said very quietly through clenched teeth "Wilson, how the  _hell_  did Sherlock manage to get that… _thing_  up on the wall? Get it down immediately and take it into my office. When Mr Derrand is upstairs after tea, I want you to escort the idiot down into my office, and make sure he stays in there until I arrive."

He went back into the drawing room and set about charming the Frenchman. A large contract was at stake, and he wasn't about to get side-tracked by the distraction.

Once his guest was safely upstairs, Richard went into his office, throwing open the door without warning. He caught Sherlock sitting in the chair behind the desk. Richard's laptop was open and on. The older man smiled, mirthlessly.

"Trying to hack in, are you? Good luck. I'm not the idiot in this family." He reached into his pocket and dangled a fob- it generated a random alphanumeric code on a daily basis, synchronised every morning as the password. "Get out of that chair  _now._ " It was delivered in a quiet voice that nonetheless screamed with menace. Sherlock moved out of the chair, keeping the desk between him and his father.

The tall man sat down in the vacated chair and gestured angrily at the torn poster lying on the desk. "What do you call  _this_ , Sherlock?"

The thirteen year old did not flinch at the malice in his father's tone. "How long did it take you to figure it out?" The question was uttered in a cheeky nonchalance, as if he was not at all overawed by his father.

Holmes just sneered. "About ten seconds to realise that your unnatural obsession means that 43 is Rhodium. Thereafter it was simple. Fortunately for you, my guest is a medical clinician by training and not a chemist, so your use of the periodic table was totally wasted on him." He was watching Sherlock, who had started to feel the heat in his father's gaze. His bravado was beginning to evaporate under its intensity.

"Sit down. At any moment your anxiety is going to start making you fidget and you know how I hate the physical manifestations of your defect."

Sherlock glowered at him, but did grab one of the hard backed chairs by the window and positioned it a safe distance away from the desk.

His father continued. "Before you make accusations like the one on that sheet, it's wise to think through the consequences. Did no one ever tell you that slandering people is dangerous?"

Sherlock's fear of his father collided with his self-righteous belief in his own veracity, and truth won over caution. "It's not a lie;  _YOU_ are the liar."

"And what evidence does that feeble brain of yours care to offer for such an accusation?"

"Apart from the lies you told mummy about your adultery, I know you are suppressing the report on your drug- the one designed to fix cardiac arrhythmia; the evidence says it interacts fatally with other drugs likely to be in use by heart patients. But you're not telling anyone that- including this man from France, who might buy it."

Richard's face flushed. "How do you come up with such  _drivel_ , boy?"

"It's in the report sitting in the second drawer down of your desk. I read it last night."

"You've come into a part of the house that is explicitly forbidden to you. Picked the door lock. Read something you can't possibly understand and come to a very wrong conclusion. You're an idiot, Sherlock, and becoming a danger not only to yourself but now to me. This  _stupidity_ , this  _provocation_  has got to stop, boy. I won't have you interfering in my business activity. You're certainly not worth it. I will send you away. Don't for a moment think you can stop me."

"I can stay here. It's my home too. Mycroft says I have a right to be here." His nervousness was betrayed in his voice, which seemed to have gone squeaky.

Holmes just laughed. "Seen your brother lately then, have you? He's in Central America, Sherlock; he's been there for months and he's unavailable to help you now." He stood up and started to walk around the desk. Sherlock had only seconds to decide whether to take what he knew was coming- a physical manifestation of his father's anger- or to flee. He was half way out of his chair when there was a knock on the door. He tore over to it and threw it open to reveal a startled butler.

"Sir, Mrs Derrand's car has arrived. Do you want to greet her personally or shall I get Mrs Walters to take her upstairs?"

Richard Holmes simply pushed Sherlock aside and walked through the door. "Don't think, boy, that you have been saved by this timely intervention. Postponed, yes; forgotten, never."

Less than an hour later, Sherlock was eavesdropping on the back stairs, not more than three meters around the corner from the Derrands' bedroom. They'd been allocated his mother's old room and he was a master at unseen loitering with intent, after years of overhearing his parents arguing about him.

Unbeknownst to the pair, like his brother, Sherlock spoke French. Within seconds, he'd figured out that "Michelle Derrand" was in fact, not his wife at all, but his mistress, who was masquerading as the wife. His real wife was back at home in Paris, oblivious to his plans for a dirty weekend at the expense of the Englishman. The two were laughing at his father for having been taken in by their act. Francois was equally derisory about the idea that a bit of good food at an English country house could influence him in any way when it came to making pharmaceutical choices.

Later after dinner, Michelle came up to the bedroom to get a sweater. As she pulled the black angora cardigan from her case, she spotted a piece of paper lying neatly on her pillow. Confused, she took it downstairs to the library where she found Francois and Richard enjoying a brandy.

She handed her husband the note. "What does it mean, mon cher?"

Francois scanned it, and frowned. "Richard, I believe your son is being mischievous. Do translate for us, please." He handed over the sheet, upon which the following numbers were written:

90+6-92+30

18+63-92

99-66-70+92+3-53+52+45-1+68+16

Holmes read it slowly, working through it carefully. His face must have betrayed something of his reaction to the message, because Francois caught his discomfort.

"What does it say?"

Holmes tossed it aside. "I don't think you want to hear the demented ideas of a thirteen year old, really, I must apologise for the boy's intrusion, Madam- it was unforgiveable."

Michelle looked intrigued. "I would like to know what it says, Mr Holmes. Please."

Francois Derrand decided that he enjoyed the man's discomfort. He'd been acting the lord of the manor all evening, irritating the Frenchman with his airs of superiority. "I insist, Monsieur. Honesty is the best policy, as you British like to say. So tell us what it says." There was an edge to his tone, one that Holmes picked up on instantly.

"I prefer not to do so, if you don't mind."

"But, I do mind. Think of this as a little test, Holmes. Transparency is important."

There was something in the Frenchman's manner that made Holmes realise he'd already lost the battle- and that the contract was already out of reach. That made him think.

"Very well, as you insist, the message is based on the elements of the periodic table, which can be substituted for the letters of the alphabet. It says, "They are adulterers."

There was a shocked silence.

"Madam, or shall I call you mademoiselle? I don't suppose Monsieur Derrand would like his real wife to know of your liaison this evening. By all means, enjoy yourselves tonight as my guest. I am a man of the world and respect your right to privacy. Although I expect your wife would be less tolerant should she come to hear about this. And if such a scandal were to become public knowledge? Well, I can imagine her brother, the Minister for Health, would take a dim view of it all, I am sure. So, I look forward to the negotiations about our supplies being approved by the Haute Autorité de Santé." He smiled at the stunned pair.  _Thank you, Sherlock._

Later that night, Richard poured himself a brandy. Despite his ability to turn the situation to his advantage, he was under no illusions. He sat down at the desk, and took out a sheet of correspondence paper.

_My dear Mycroft,_

_I am writing to inform you that our "agreement" regarding your brother is at an end. Tonight he seriously jeopardised a crucial business relationship by indulging in outrageous behaviour. Although I have resurrected the situation, I can no longer tolerate the arrangement of sharing my home with him. He has become too expensive a liability for me to tolerate._

_Either you move Sherlock elsewhere or I will do it myself. I need the London townhouse for business purposes, and I need to know that my guests will not be harassed or embarrassed if they visit my country home. It's time, Mycroft that you stopped indulging him. He needs firm discipline. You are not here and cannot do so from a distance. Send him away to a school that can deal with his special needs, and keep him locked away from the sight of those who need to respect this family. If you leave him here, then I will be the one to make the decision about where he goes. You have one month to make alternative arrangements. I am copying this letter to our respective solicitors._

_I remain_ _your loving father,_

_Richard_


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Discovered in 1803, Rhodium is named for the rose colour of one of its chlorine compounds. Rhodium is a "noble metal"; that is, it is inert to corrosion and most aggressive chemicals. White gold is often plated with a thin Rhodium layer to improve its appearance and sterling silver is often plated with Rhodium to improve its resistance to tarnish.

John followed Sherlock toward the front door, which stood wide open. A traditional semi-detached in one of London's northern suburbs, the two storey house had been built sometime before the last war, and withstood the blitz. A few new low-rise apartment blocks on the same street stood as mute testimony for those houses not so lucky to escape the bombs. Now this area of Golders Green had been colonised by wealthy professionals.

The hall lights were on, and the constable standing on the black and white tiled floor directed them into the living room. Sherlock swept in and took in the scene, with John close on his heels. The doctor saw the immaculately detailed room, the tell-tale signs of someone who read all the interior design magazines- tasteful, expensive and oh, so perfect. The only things out of place were Lestrade and Sally Donovan, who was trying to deal with a man in his early forties sitting on the white leather sofa, crying inconsolably. His hands and the front of his shirt were bloody, the red standing out in startling contrast to the white minimalist décor. The consulting detective caught Lestrade's eye; the DI crossed the white designer carpet to talk quietly to pair.

"Thomas Young. Corporate lawyer in the City- loads of money, a real dealmaker. His wife is dead in the kitchen. He called it in, said he had killed her. He's repeated that fact several times in the past ten minutes."

John's heart sank. He waited for the inevitable cry, "BORING!" Sherlock had been without a case for days now and he'd hoped that Lestrade's call would lift his spirits. The doctor was getting decidedly weary of the man moping about the flat. A domestic murder with a confession hardly seemed to warrant a call from Lestrade.

"You don't believe him," was the unexpected baritone response.

Greg made a face. "I don't  _know_ , do I? It just feels…off somehow."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. " _Off?"_ His sarcasm was clear.

But that annoyed Greg. "Yeah, off. I can't explain it. Call it a copper's hunch, born from years of dealing with husbands and wives having a go at each other."

Sherlock looked hard at the DI. "Well, let's see if we can be a little more  _scientific_  about this, shall we?"

He stalked past the crying man as if he wasn't even there. John looked sympathetically at Mr Young, and wondered if Lestrade had somehow thought the man's grief was being faked. It sure looked real. As a medical professional and a trauma specialist at that, John had some experience of bereavement. To his eye this looked like the genuine article. His nurturing instincts warred briefly with his investigative neutrality.  _Sentiment._ Sherlock would laugh at his instant character judgements.

Sherlock was standing in the hallway fishing through a pile of opened post strewn on the table. A dish held house and car keys. He pocketed one of the letters and then headed back toward the kitchen.

John's face showed his appreciation of the wife's taste. The kitchen was a long room with a conservatory style glass side overlooking a garden that came straight out of the Chelsea Flower show- every bloom perfect, every blade of grass in regimental stripes. The kitchen looked immaculate, too- and had just about every conceivable "must have" feature, from the steam convection oven to the boiling hot water tap. On the far side of the wooden butcher-block island, he could see the legs of a woman stretched out on the floor.

Sherlock did not hesitate, taking in the kitchen through peripheral vision- his eyes were focused on the woman. After standing beside the body for a moment, Sherlock suddenly crouched down and lifted the woman's left hand. He used his pocket magnifier to examine her fingers very closely.

"John , could you go check the bedroom? You're looking for a wedding ring with an engagement ring- and there should be a third one, an eternity ring."

Anderson was standing in the corner of the kitchen watching the two of them. His perpetual frown was there, a sort of instinctive reaction to the presence of the consulting detective.

"What do you think happened here, Anderson?"

He crossed his arms. "I don't know why  _you_  were called in. This is an open-and-shut domestic murder. The scene has already been processed."

"Appearances can be deceiving; you of all people should know that."

"And what's that supposed to mean?" he snapped back at him. "Or are you going to suggest that somehow that knife wasn't the murder weapon?" He pointed to the bloody kitchen knife that lay in an evidence bag on the wooden counter top. "For God's sake, not every murder has to involve rocket science! Three out of four murders in London are men killing their other halves. Sorry if that's  _boring_  for you, but it's a fact."

Sherlock looked back down at the housewife lying on the floor. The blood pool spreading out from her left leg was starting to darken. The police had been on the scene for almost two hours before Lestrade called in Sherlock.

The consulting detective smirked. "And I'm sure that you are right about the weapon. The husband's fingerprints will be found on the knife, as will hers. But that still doesn't mean murder."

"You're just absurd; you know that- the guy is sitting in the living room saying to every one of us that he killed her. Only you could twist that confession into something other than what it is."

"You believe what you were meant to believe; this isn't a murder."

Anderson threw his hands up in a gesture of both frustration and resignation. John came back into the kitchen. He opened his latex gloved hand to reveal two rings- a narrow white gold band and a matching engagement ring. The diamond was very large.

Sherlock smiled. "Anderson, what do you make of that?!" His tone was triumphant.

The CS Examiner looked at him as if he was crazy. "A wedding ring and an engagement ring. Wow, found on the bedside table, I'll bet, of a  _married_  woman. How exciting. Must be a really  _unusual_  event." His sarcasm was so thick it could be cut with a knife.

Sherlock looked at the blue suited man as if he couldn't believe his stupidity. Abruptly, he turned back to the doctor. "John, examine the wound. I think you will find that it is a single stab to the left thigh, and that the blade pierced the femoral artery, in a dragged longitudinal slice, rather than across the artery."

John obediently went down beside the body and pulled at the woman's dress, so he could visualise the wound. "Got it in one, Sherlock. The murderer got lucky- she'd have bled out in less than three minutes; probably lost consciousness within ninety seconds. How did you know?"

"Oh, John- not  _you_  too? You said ' _murderer'._ Why do you think the husband killed her?" His disappointment showed.

John looked down at the body and then back up at the detective. He stood up. "I didn't say the husband killed her, just that she was murdered."

Lestrade chose that moment to walk into the kitchen. "So, am I wrong, Sherlock?"

"No, not at all. Your instincts are better than your intellect, Lestrade. Your gut knows something is wrong, even if your brain isn't smart enough to figure it out."

Greg smiled indulgently. "Okay, now that you've got the routine insult out of the way, tell me what I'm missing."

"Not just you, Detective Inspector. Your Crime Scene team and even John have been fooled." He pulled out of a pocket a roll of small tools, dragged a pair of pliers out. Then he whirled around and threw himself down onto his knees in front of the cupboard under the kitchen sink, throwing open the doors. His head and shoulders disappeared into the cupboard. Seconds later, cleansers and sponges, aerosol spray cans, a floor bucket and other stuff came cascading out onto the floor.

"Hey, stop that! You'll contaminate the scene!" Anderson reached down and grabbed for Sherlock's shoulder. He flinched away from the touch but kept fishing around. Then came a muffled, "Ahah!"

Anderson let go and Sherlock emerged, holding something small in his gloved hand. In a triumphant baritone came the words, "The murder weapon- well, in a manner of speaking."

He held aloft a diamond eternity ring. "Caught in the trap under the sink. She threw it down the plughole in disgust."

John, Anderson and Lestrade traded looks. Greg was the one who asked the inevitable question. "How on earth can you know what she was  _feeling_ , Sherlock? She could have just lost it down the sink days ago. What on earth does it have to do with the murder?"

He cast a scathing look at the Detective Inspector. "Really? Look around you. This kitchen has every conceivable gadget known- including an American style disposal, whose blades would have made mincemeat of this if it had been turned on. And I can assure you, this woman would have turned it on every night to keep the sink pipes squeaky clean."

"And, just look at it." He took a paper towel and cleaned it, laying it on the counter next to the engagement ring and the wedding band. "What do you see?"

Anderson snorted. "The same thing I saw before- three pieces of jewellery that tells me she was a happily married woman."

Sherlock made an exaggerated sad face, shaking his head. It was meant sarcastically, and the CSE bristled at its implications.

The DI's patience at the usual sparring between Sherlock and Anderson came to an end. "Okay, that's enough you two. Just out with it Sherlock."

"This is a suicide, Lestrade. One designed to look like a murder. The revenge of a frustrated, house-proud woman who loved her husband's bank balance for what it bought her more than she did the man. The post sitting on the hall table says everything one needs to know- if you could be bothered to read it. Item one, the first letter addressed to her is a notification of the twentieth reunion of her class of nursing graduates. She's a former nurse, a trained medical professional who would know just how to cut a femoral artery to maximise the wound, minimise the time before she lost consciousness. There are no hesitation marks."

He walked over to the body and pointed. "You all are obsessed with what you see so much that you can't see what's  _missing_. No defensive wounds. She didn't try to stop an attacker, because she was the one cutting the artery."

Anderson butted in, "but why would someone like her want to kill herself? What possible motive- and what's the bloody ring got to do with it?"

Sherlock sighed. "Item two- from the day's post, a bank statement addressed to her husband. She opened it, probably not her usual practice, but she'd grown suspicious lately. The bank balance, of course, has something crucial  _missing_! There's no incoming salary payment. He's probably been made redundant. Could have been that way for months, but not told her, for fear of what she would do. He even took the dubious step of trying to cover his poverty up by buying her this ring." He pointed at the eternity ring on the table.

Now it was Lestrade who looked puzzled. "What's wrong with the ring?"

"You  _really_  don't see it?"

The DI shook his head.

Sherlock closed his eyes briefly, as if he could not bear to look at them. "The diamond on the engagement ring is at least a carat- worth a fortune, worthy of a high-flying corporate lawyer. And a matching white gold band, both plated in rhodium. The eternity ring is obviously not in the same class. Not plated for a start. But one look at the supposed diamonds, and an expert would know those are cubic zirconium. So, he tried to tell her he loved her by buying a ring that cost less than a hundred pounds."

"Look at the irritated skin around her ring finger. Something in the cheap ring set off a metal allergy. She got suspicious, and had its value assessed. Item three from the post" Here he waved the paper John had seen him stuff in his pocket. "The reply from the jeweller telling her it's worthless. So, she throws the offensive ring down the sink in disgust and does herself in, making sure that all the evidence points to him. He's overcome with remorse. Of course, in his eyes, he's 'killed' her by losing his job and becoming …something other than a means to indulge her retail therapy."

"Bloody hell, Sherlock."

"Yes, Detective Inspector. If your hunch had not led you to call me in, your team here would be sending an innocent man to prison. Now go in there and tell the poor man to stop judging himself against the same monetary measurement that his shallow wife used."

oOo

He was trying to concentrate on the ledger sitting on the desk, but a pesky fly kept intruding. The humidity was over 90% and the temperature was…decidedly too tropical for his taste. Unbearable, in fact. He felt moisture gathering at the base of his spine, beneath the trouser line. He didn't need a mirror to know that he looked rumpled and red-faced, with sweat stains ruining his clothes- a far cry from his usual turn out. The ceiling fan was circling at a desultory pace, pushing the steamy air around with little effect. It was nearly noon local time. Almost 7pm in the UK. He glared at the telephone sitting on the desk, as if willing it to ring.

When it failed to oblige, Mycroft Holmes resisted the temptation to sigh. No use in wasting breath. Either the terrible phone lines connecting this back-of-beyond border town with the rest of the world were going to work, or they weren't. He forced his attention back on the column of data painstakingly written in by the border official. He was looking for a set of names that were most likely aliases, but their flow of traffic would be revealing nevertheless.

The very junior British Government official stationed for the last four months in the UK consulate in Belize City had been sent to the western border town of Benque in the Cayo district. Not a mile from the border with Guatemala, Benque Viego del Carmen, to give it its full title, was a town of straight streets and carefully plotted houses- a statement built by the Belize Government since independence thirteen years ago. In contrast, the Guatemalan town of Melchor de Menos had been little more than a collection of mud huts for the past century. It lay across the river. And only accessible if one was willing to endure the hour long process of being transferred from the one set of suspicious border guards wearing Belize uniforms to another set of suspicious border guards wearing Guatemalan uniforms.

It was his first overseas posting since leaving Oxford and he had absolutely no choice in where he was sent. So, he dealt with it by practising stoicism. Now, finally, his patience was paying off. The data was there- and it was encouraging. The cross border traffic indicated that the four way coalition of Guatemalan rebel groups was holding together and that the leaderships of the four factions were turning their attention back to the negotiation table.  _At last; we might see some real progress._  The talks aimed at ending the decade long civil war in Guatemala had stuttered on for almost four years, whilst the Belize government waited to see if their pesky neighbour would finally abandon its territorial claims against the former British colony. A British military garrison remained in the country, and was costing Her Majesty's Treasury too much. The PM wanted to reduce the number of troops, but needed hard evidence. The democratically elected prime minister of Belize worried incessantly about the US administration aiding the military government in Guatemala- would it be strong enough to resist the left wing guerrillas in the backcountry? If not, then Belize might find itself under threat again. So, without this evidence, it would be hard to argue for a troop reduction. He'd been sent out to this God-forsaken border town to assess the situation.

Mycroft heard the tell-tale whine too late, slapping against his neck, and was rewarded by the feel of his own blood mingling with that of the mosquito. The Mayan Hotel was too close to the river; he was covered in bites. His local driver had laughed when he asked if there was a place to buy mosquito repellent in the town, or at least a cortisone cream to stop the itching.

"The bugs prefer European blood- you're an exotic dish to them. We are so used to them, I think we are immune."

 _Field work is annoying_. He'd much rather have sent someone out to dig up the data, and digested it back in the air conditioned office at the consulate. But, he was the one with the ability to spot the trends in the seemingly mundane data, and that meant someone who knew what he was looking for needed to crawl through the raw data. So, here he was. Someday, soon if he could figure out how to persuade his superiors, he'd hand-select a group of  _intelligent_  intelligence officers to do this sort of work for him.

A new itch started up- this one under the ring on his right hand. He glowered at it, and shifted the gold band up his finger to see how on earth a mosquito could have bitten him under it. Instead of the round bump that he expected to find, he saw a band of red and irritated flesh encircling the finger of his right hand.  _Great- a metal allergy_. He shook his head. This was history telling him he was in the wrong place. The ring had been given to him by his mother- it was the symbol of the Sherrinford viscounts, and had been worn by every one of the line since the 17th century. Too big for her finger, she'd worn it on a gold necklace. "Appropriate, my dear. The title and responsibilities attached are a kind of chain around my neck. I hope it won't be too burdensome for you."

The fact that he was developing a rash suggested that the ring wasn't one hundred per cent gold; if not 24 carat, he wondered what other metals had been blended to make it strong enough to sustain regular use for over four hundred years. Probably nickel. He'd have to get it plated when he got back to Britain with something hypoallergenic such as rhodium. It might change the colour a bit, make it more rosy. He idly wondered who might wear it next, if anyone. He'd not had time to consider marriage, and field work was hardly conducive to a romance that might lead to a marital result. He was only twenty. There was plenty of time. The whole prospect just was …too much to think about now. The irritation about his train of thought finally forced a sigh out of him.

Then he remembered how he had acquired the knowledge about rhodium plating the last time he was home. That made him smile. He had been called to the garage by the chauffeur, to find his brother wearing a black glass visor over his eyes to shield them from the blow torch that was being applied to the contents of a small white ceramic bowl.

"Sherlock, what are you doing?" He studiously avoided looking at the bright flame.

Over the roar of the torch, Sherlock shouted, "Experiment."

In an equally loud voice, Mycroft replied. "I can see that. Whatever it is, do you really need to vandalise one of Mummy's silver coffee spoons to do it?"

On the metal table were a few twisted remnants of a small spoon, with small pieces pinched off by the pliers. He presumed that these were the pieces that Sherlock was trying to melt.

"It's mine- my christening spoon. I'm trying to figure out what it's plated with because it never tarnishes, unlike the rest of the stuff that Wilson has to polish all the time."

As Mycroft watched, Sherlock closed off the gas supply to the torch, and quickly grabbed insulated mitts so he could pour off the metal onto a fine mesh filter. As the metal passed through, it cooled and started to congeal back into a solid on the plate beneath. He re-started the torch, playing it over the surface of the mesh, and a few more droplets of silver dripped through. Then he switched off.

Mycroft was alarmed by the high temperature involved- not to mention the fact that Sherlock had appropriated the builder's torch. The cast iron railings on the back steps from the drawing room's doors onto the York stone pavement were rusting, and they were being replaced. The craftsman from the local village was soldering in replacement pieces, and had left his equipment behind until he could resume on Monday.

"Sherlock, I am  _sure_  that this equipment was locked up in the storage room for a reason, as I am equally sure that you should not be using it, unsupervised."

"You're here. Before you arrived, Father's driver was here. And I know what I am doing."

Mycroft sighed as he watched Sherlock raise the mesh to eye level. He examined the residue with a large magnifying glass, then put it back down to take a sample onto a microscope slide, put a couple of drops of some liquid on it and then slipped it under the lens. A few seconds later came the satisfied grunt.

"Take a look. Tell me what you see." Sherlock pulled aside and let Mycroft peer through the eyepiece.

"I see little metal fragments."

"Don't state the obvious. What  _colour_  are they, Mycroft? That's what matters."

"Sort of pinkish." He stood up and looked at his little brother. "Does the colour matter?"

"Of course. I've added chlorine, and that made it pink, which means it is rhodium. Don't fret about the workman's stuff. He won't notice the absence of five minutes' worth of oxyacetylene. The spoon is mine, so no harm done there. I could have done this quicker if I had used one of Mummy's gold rings- but I thought you'd get upset by that."

All things considered, Mycroft decided his brother was being more sensible than he usually was. "Why rhodium?"

"It's used on silver, both solid and plate, to protect from tarnish. And it's used on jewellery to stop the impurities in gold and silver rings setting off skin allergies."

Four months later and half way around the world, Mycroft looked at the red and irritated skin around his finger, and smiled. He'd have to tell Sherlock that sweat seemed to exacerbate the process, and get him to figure out the chemistry involved. Then the phone rang.

"Holmes."

A voice at the other end advised him that a call from Britain was being patched through.

"Hello?" He waited for the inevitable time delay, hearing the odd echo of his voice reflected back through the various undersea cables.

"Mycroft, hello! Glad that you got the message and we can finally talk."

"Good evening, Doctor Cohen. Yes, I did get the message, but this will need to be brief- the lines out here are very unreliable and we could be cut off at any point. So, brevity, please."

A delay. Then her voice came through. "OK- not to put too fine a point on it- your father has given you a deadline to move Sherlock out of the house by the end of this month. If you don't, he will- and he's suggesting a special needs school, which happens to be a secure facility."

Mycroft just closed his eyes. He was over 8,000 kilometres away from London, and there would be very little he could do about it if his father decided to carry through with the threat. "What does my solicitor say? Presumably, he is the one who contacted you?"

Again, the echo of his own query made him realise how annoyed he sounded.

"We are  _way_  past solicitors, Mycroft. What can  _he_  do to stop your father? And, to be honest, I think it's time to separate those two. Sherlock's starting to grow up- he's enjoying taking risks, which means he is provoking your father, without necessarily knowing where it will lead. It's time that you thought about a school."

His heart sank. The fly buzzed by again, this time landing on his hand. Annoyed, he shook it off. He said dully, "a  _special needs_  school. I just don't see him taking to that, do you?"

"No, I think Sherlock can cope with a normal school."

Mycroft thought about that for a moment. "He'd tear the place apart- or it would tear him apart. A boy's boarding school is not exactly easy on someone as different as he is."

"Maybe you've been away too long, Mycroft. He has made progress in your absence. His tutors can't keep up- he says he's bored. He won't be bored at a good public school. Scared, yes- but he  _knows_  how to act, he just chooses not to. I think it's worth a try."

"He will be bored with the curriculum. He's already passed his GCSEs. He'd be joining a school with a load of thirteen year olds who won't take those tests for two or three years."

"There are more things to learn at school than just the academic studies, Mycroft. It's sort of  _now or never_  when it comes to learning enough social skills to cope with life."

"Do you  _really_  think he's up to that?"

He heard the hesitation in the psychiatrist's tone. "I  _think_  so. At least, I know he prefers it to the alternative. And if he wants it, then he just might be able to pull it off."

"Dr Cohen. I'm stuck out here for at least another four months. I was planning to take home leave in July. We could discuss it then. I could try to take him to a few places, see if they were willing to cope with someone as awkward as he is likely to be."

"That's too late, Mycroft. By then, your father will have put him into the other kind of school. And that is likely to send Sherlock right back down into depression."

"What do you suggest? I could try to find an aged great aunt to look after him until I get back."

"Packing him off somewhere to stay with relatives he loathes isn't an answer. If he is going to make this move to a school with as positive a frame of mind as possible, I think it has to be done  _now._  If you agree, I want to have a talk with someone I know well who is a housemaster at Harrow. See what advice he can give me. If there is a boarding school that will take him for the summer term, then he will get a taste of what is to come properly in September. A sort of soft launch. If he has to keep chopping and changing places, it will only make adjusting to the new environment twice as hard."

Mycroft thought about it. Harrow. Well, it was reputed to be kinder than Eton. "Tell your contact at Harrow that our maternal grandfather was a Harrovian. It might help them look favourably on this late an application."

He felt frustrated. He was so far away, and had not spoken to his brother in months. But decisive action was needed; he knew his father would be delighted to take things into his own hands, if Mycroft were the slightest bit hesitant. A piece of him liked the idea very much of Sherlock going to a proper school and showing his father just how wrong he was about the boy. It was a high risk strategy, but …there wasn't much option.

"Mycroft? Are you still there? Have we lost the line?" He could hear the fear in her voice. It wasn't fair to land her in the middle of it. If he didn't do something, she'd have to stand by and watch Richard Holmes take steps to put his younger son away for good. That's what the effect would be of sending a brain like Sherlock's into a school full of children who did not share his strengths, just his weaknesses.

"It's alright, Doctor Cohen. I'm still here. Just do it. Find a school, the best one possible, one that will take him for both this term and the next year. In seven days, at exactly the same time as we are speaking tonight, I will telephone Sherlock at home. Can you be there, too? I need to hear it from him that he is willing to give it a go. Can you do that for us?""

"Yes, yes, of course; happy to help." He could hear the relief in her voice. "I'll get ont….." the line abruptly broke off the conversation and the sound of her voice was replaced by that most annoying noise- a sort of angry static. For once, Mycroft didn't mind; he had managed to get the important business done before the call failed. He slipped the ring off his finger and put it into his pocket. He would get a chain like his mother's and wear it that way, until the irritation healed and he could get it plated.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Can you "decode" Sherlock's messages? 45 is Rh for Rhodium, then minus 1, which is Hydrogen. Figure the rest out.


End file.
